


Strings

by anewkindofthrill



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Codependency, F/M, Fantasizing, M/M, Season 1, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 22:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anewkindofthrill/pseuds/anewkindofthrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hates strings, but John is a puppet master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ununpentium for beta-reading! 
> 
> 'Childhood trauma' may be a bit exaggerated, but well, many things can be traumatic, can't they.

Sherlock hates strings. 

Of course not the strings of his violin - no, strings with which you can tie somebody up. Capture somebody; deny them their freedom. 

His older brother has always tried to connect himself with him through these bloody strings, but Sherlock runs away from them. It‘s not that he is afraid of them. Of course not. Sherlock Holmes is not afraid of anything. It is just that he doesn‘t need strings like other people do, he‘s perfectly fine without them. He is the only person he knows who hasn‘t got any strings and he is very proud of it. He feels even more special without them than he already does. 

Sherlock has never been in need of them. There was no one who has ever understood this. An outsider would say Sherlock had a very lonely childhood. Sherlock would say he had a very un _string_ ed childhood. Sherlock thinks that this is freedom. 

John is a person full of loose strings. Sherlock deduces this in the very first few seconds of their acquaintance. John‘s strings reach out and connect him with everybody. John likes that. John is a very _stringy_ person. 

Sherlock wonders why he doesn‘t detest it. Him. But something makes him accept John. He wouldn‘t say he liked John - to _like_ is definitely a string. And Sherlock hates strings. But despite the sticky ends of these horrible things that surround John, Sherlock likes to be close to John. He just has to try not to get stuck, not to get tied up. This shouldn‘t be a problem. 

Sticky, stringy John kills a man to save Sherlock‘s life. And what does Sherlock do? Invite him to dinner. He is such an idiot. He should have known.

Afterwards, when Sherlock has a shower, he scrubs his pale skin even harder than he usually does. The water is so hot that it‘s almost painful, but Sherlock has to wash away the glue of John‘s sticky ends. It‘s so difficult. He tucked away the strings but the glue just won‘t go away. 

When he enters the kitchen to get some tea he is flushed and his skin is pink. John can see it because Sherlock didn‘t care to dress in his gown (why didn‘t he, why? he hates being exposed, hates his skin being visible, even more when it‘s hot and pink and flushed) and John smiles his warm, worn-out smile that makes his strings look like deadly ropes (he really should have known, calling himself a genius). 

Sherlock closes his eyes and lowers his head, pretends that water from his soaking wet hair has come into them. Suddenly there is a mug in his hand. He looks up and is again blinded by his flatmate‘s smile. The mug in his hand is hot, John has made him some tea. He takes a sip - exactly how he likes his tea. 

One of the very few things you simply cannot deduce is how someone likes his tea. It‘s a thing that annoys Sherlock beyond words. 

But John just knows. 

Suddenly there are two strings which pull up the corners of Sherlock‘s full lips. 

“Thank you“, he whispers. Not just for the tea.

“Anytime. Good night.“ John is still smiling when he turns around to climb the stairs and go to bed. 

_They are golden (like his hair). Tiny, very thin, but very strong. They make you stand still and stop thinking (he hates to stop thinking, he hates strings). They make you watch their owner, look at him, besotted, enchanted, they make you breathe in his scent and repeat his voice in your head and seek for the warmth of the tea he made for you, for the warmth of his touch when he gave it to you.  
They capture you, they don‘t let you go.  
That‘s what strings do. _

_It isn‘t so bad,_ he thinks, while they tie him up secretly, very few at first, but he doesn‘t care to wash them off anymore. He just stares at their owner until his bedroom door shuts. Still smiling.  
~

Sherlock lets his guard down. He stops caring. 

John watches the news and gets angry about something Sherlock doesn‘t know or care about, something that has to do with politics. That is Mycroft’s area. When John gets angry he doesn‘t do grand gestures like Sherlock, it‘s just something in his posture that changes. Sherlock thinks it is special and he likes to observe it everytime _(a new string)._

John laughs _(a new one)_ at a joke someone told him in the army. It has come to his mind because he found his dog tags _(a new one)_ when he finally unpacked his things in 221B _(a new one)_ (Sherlock was afraid - no, he _thought_ John would never unpack his stuff). But with the flood of memories of the war there also come unpleasant ones and suddenly John has a very serious, almost sad expression on his face (Sherlock stops counting the new strings at this point). Only for a few seconds - he doesn‘t like to wear that expression, especially when Sherlock stands in the doorway and watches him. So John acts like everything is okay and smiles his false, rather new, not so worn-out smile when he looks at the detective _(ten new ones, oh God)_. 

Later, at the crime scene, John scowls at Sally when she calls Sherlock a freak _(a dozen new ones)_ , and he laughs when Sherlock tells Anderson to shut up _(everywhere strings)._

Everywhere on his pale skin, there is glue. Sherlock cannot even see his skin anymore, he only sees these golden, mischievous little things. 

_As long as they don‘t go under my skin, everything is still fine,_ he tells his skull in a private moment. He can still pull them off later and wash the glue away. _Only bones are important and my bones are mine._

It‘s all fine.  
~

The problem with John‘s loose strings is that they reach anyone. John has so many of them and he loves to share them.  
The problem with Sherlock is, once he actually let some of them stick to him, even if they‘re only superficially attached to him, he doesn‘t like them to be somewhere else. 

There is a new case, an interesting one, and John helps him (of course he does, they are connected now, but just loosely, don‘t forget, you can pull the strings off whenever you like). He follows him to the bank. 

Sebastian also wanted to glue his strings onto Sherlock once, but Sherlock refused. 

Sherlock has always refused, but he looks forward to show Sebastian that he actually is capable of something like that. He introduces John as his _friend._

This is when everything in Sherlock‘s life goes downhill. John doesn‘t acknowledge being Sherlock‘s friend, instead he promptly corrects him by saying _colleague._

Suddenly every string on Sherlock‘s skin is being pulled off, the glue rips and it hurts. Superficially. The tiny, thin strings are all away and that should please Sherlock, but it hurts. 

Something else hurts even more. And that‘s inside his, his, _his_ body. The sight of the ropes. Sherlock can finally see each and every rope John is holding in his strong, small hands _(does he know that he holds them, does he know what power he has? please don‘t let him know)._ The loose ends of them are all glued on and knotted with each of Sherlock‘s bones.

Sherlock Holmes is a puppet on the strings and John Watson is the puppet master.

That is why Sherlock hates strings.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to ununpentium for beta-reading.

You cannot fool Sherlock Holmes. Romanticism is stupid, feelings are camouflage.  
The point of strings is dominance, obviously, even with a person as good as John Watson. John is not aware of the strings, he is just an idiot like everybody else. Only Sherlock can see them. Sherlock has trained himself to see them, to defend himself from them, which shows that he is an idiot as well because now he is under the control of the good doctor. But do you know what? After the first shock he does not even really care.   
Until he brings her home with them. 

_“Stand still. Don‘t move. Very good.“  
Father wants me to be good. So I will be good.   
“You‘ll have to do your best. I hope you understand?“  
Yes, of course, I‘m intelligent. I understand everything.   
For example I understand that Father is a very important man. That is why he has to look important. And we, the family, are a part of him so we have to look important, too.   
I also understand that father will hug me after I do well. I have to deserve it. I‘ll do what father tells me to. _

_I look at the strings of my violin. Sometimes when I am not good they will rip apart. Ripping apart strings is a bit not good because then father will not like me anymore.  
Like the day before yesterday. I was in the garden with the magnifying glass my big brother has bought me secretly. I love my magnifying glass and I love my brother. He is already 12 years old and very intelligent. Someday I want to be like him. I don‘t know why he does not play the cello anymore, though.  
I also love my mummy. And Father. But Father was so angry with me the day before yesterday when he saw that I was playing in the garden (he says ‘playing‘ ... I was _observing _) instead of practicing for today. He yelled at me and I immediately went inside and got my violin because I have to look good today. Be good. But I was nervous because he was so furious. So I broke the strings._

John Watson might be the puppet master but Sherlock is a master at playing the violin. So there are strings, there are even ropes. So what? Sherlock will certainly take advantage of them. He was taught to do this. He will make them play his own melody, and John so loves to hear him play. 

When John is holding the strings and Sherlock runs, John is dragged along. And John even looks like he is enjoying this although he hasn‘t slept for hours. They go to Chinatown and the museum and everything seems alright. They spend the night quietly together, going through the books and John does not even complain.   
Maybe this is not so bad. Okay, Sherlock is a captive now, but John does not notice and Sherlock will do anything to keep him from noticing. 

Anything. 

John asks Sarah out. She accepts. 

There are strings in Sherlock‘s flesh now, on his lips, in his eyes. And John is pulling them and it _hurts so much_. It‘s unfair because John does not pull on the strings he has attached to Sarah; they are not like ropes but like silky ribbons, much more comfortable. They are going out together and Sherlock has to follow. He feels humiliated, feels like he is on a leash - this should be John‘s part - and comforts himself with the fact that he goes with them because he has to investigate for the case. 

Meanwhile his flesh is being ripped off his bones and he bleeds and bleeds and bleeds. 

John does not notice. 

_“What the hell do you think have you been doing there?!“  
The strings are broken. I could not play. Father‘s guests were disappointed. They were promised some beautiful music.   
I ripped the strings apart. I disappointed him. There won‘t be any hugs. There won‘t be any warmth.  
Father tells me off and even slaps me but I do not listen.   
I think. The thing I can do best.   
I think of being liked. Of liking. Do I need this?   
I think without strings in the first place there could not be anything which could be broken.   
Do I need strings?   
Mummy cries. Mycroft wants to stop Father but gets slapped as well.   
Mycroft does not play the cello anymore.  
And suddenly I get it.   
I got Father‘s violin just to please him.  
I got Father‘s strings just to do what Father tells me.   
Oh._

Sherlock has never unintentionally struck a false note on the violin again.

 

Sherlock has never felt so helpless as after the Chinese circus incident. They were at home now and their home is the place where they grow their strings. It is a sacred place. Because as much as Sherlock hates the strings, they are still part of John and everything that is John is sacred. 

But John decided to take Sarah with them. 

If only she chopped the bloody things apart, but no. She walks between them and pulls the ropes that connect Sherlock and John and _it does not stop hurting_. John glares at Sherlock as if he is disturbing him and Sarah. 

_I‘d love to go now but you had to tie me up and I cannot move._ Oh, but John does not know he‘s done that. So Sherlock stays quiet. And stays still. He cannot move, anyway.

Sherlock discovers that John Watson has his brain on a string when he realizes that his doctor might die any second. The chinese mafia got him. He cannot think, he even has to find the location they took John to on a map. Sherlock Holmes never uses maps but his brain has gone now, too.

Everything Sherlock thinks he is belongs to John. 

At least Sherlock Holmes has no heart that could be tied up with a string and taken away.

After he rescued his puppet master and his fellow puppet, they are alone in the flat.   
It still smells like Sarah. John smiles when he realizes this, but then he turns around and faces Sherlock. His smile gets even brighter. 

“Thank you“, John whispers.   
Sherlock just nods and wants to retreat to his room to silently loathe Sarah and his situation and his own stupidity, when he suddenly feels a chest pressed to his, hands on his back and a head in the crook between his own head and his left shoulder. 

Sherlock has been good earlier that night. And now he gets a hug and gets warmth.   
It is simply the point of strings.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to ununpentium for beta-reading.

They had a fight because of _the bloody solar system_ and John left. He has just left, most probably gone to Sarah‘s, and Sherlock is alone in their flat, lying on the couch, still facing the wall.   
And everything aches because the strings cannot really stretch, they just _pull_ , the further John is away, the more they pull, the more it aches. 

No, that is not true. If John would be in Sri Lanka, it could hurt less. If John were in Sri Lanka _alone_.   
But John is at Sarah‘s. 

_John lying on Sarah, cupping her breasts with his strong, calloused hands, making Sarah moan his name._

_John‘s head between Sarah‘s legs, obscene noises filling the dark, damp room, Sarah screaming with bittersweet pleasure._

_John‘s cock, shoved fully into Sarah, filling her up, making him and her pant and shudder with anticipation._

Sherlock runs into his bathroom and vomits.   
He is overreacting. Something like that has never happened to him before. The strings change his emotional into physical pain.   
Cold sweat is all over his body and the craving for the needle is overwhelming.   
But every time he considers making the pain stop he sees John‘s disappointed face. 

_You deny me even that._

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stands up and looks into the mirror.   
His eyes are blazing feverishly, they have the colour of pearls. He is deadly pale but has two deep pink spots under each of his cheekbones.   
Sherlock supports himself on the sink, takes himself in hand, and wonders if he looked like that if... 

_John slowly unbottons his shirt and lets his hands slowly stroke over Sherlock‘s pale chest. Sherlock throws his head back, there is a noise from deep down in his throat. John seems to like that because suddenly, there is a warm pair of lips on Sherlock‘s collarbones, on his neck, on his throat._

_“Aah.“ Sherlock wraps a leg around John‘s waist and pulls him down onto him. The friction in his trousers becomes unbearable, so he puts his hand between their bodies and unzips his fly. John mimicks his actions and pulls both of their trousers down._

_“...where?“, John pants. Sherlock gesticulates towards the drawer next to his bed and John stands up, looking for lube and condoms._

_Sherlock‘s hips jerk up and he grimaces at the sudden loss of friction._

_“I need you, John.“_

_John is so close and the strings still hurt so much. But it is a good pain. He wants more.  
He removes his boxers as fast as possible and when John comes back, he is stark naked, too. _

_“Oh Sherlock“, he moans and suddenly John is all over him again, attacking him with his mouth, kneeling besides Sherlock‘s hips. Sherlock grabs John on his waist, slides his hands by his hips and places John where he wants him.  
John gasps when his buttocks touch Sherlock‘s oh so hard cock. He watches, no, he stares at Sherlock, Sherlock‘s face, Sherlock‘s predatory grin, Sherlock‘s lips, oh, he worships Sherlock like Sherlock worships him and isn‘t that nice, because that would mean that Sherlock isn‘t weak or weaker than John, but they‘re both weak and strong and _John is mine John is mine this is my John and no one else‘s and he will obey me _and John obeys when Sherlock commands: “Ride me.“_

Sherlock manages to catch most of his come. He washes his hands and looks at his now even more uncomposed features in the mirror, his feverish grin deflates when he comes back to reality and he feels again a sickening wave of self-loathing. 

Everything hurts. The strings are pulling and his stomach rumbles.   
So when he enters the living room again and is knocked down by a sudden explosion, the last thought he can think before losing consciousness is how nice it would be to feel nothing. 

 

Suddenly there is something new. The Great Game is a beautiful distraction. He does not have to feel while playing it and John is worried about him, so he follows him everywhere and does not go back to her. The strings stop aching that much and Sherlock is almost happy. He does not have time to fantasize, he does not have time to be jealous, he does not even have a reason to be - John is with him, John is helping him, everything is the game and John John John. This is how life should be. Work and John, hand in hand. 

But Sherlock should have known better.   
Because he mustn‘t accept his current situation. He has stopped fighting the strings.   
And Sherlock won‘t be good. And when Sherlock is not good, there won‘t be hugs and warmth. 

“I‘ve disappointed you.“   
“Yes. Yes, that is a good deduction.“ 

John‘s hurt expression makes him close his eyes. Of course he snaps some seemingly cold-blooded answer while he drowns in his pain. 

He does not even think about for one second that he hurt John.   
That he has the ability to hurt John, like John has the ability to hurt Sherlock.   
Sherlock is self-pitying himself way too much to...   
The game is what he has to concentrate on now. 

 

It would be very nice, indeed. Not feeling. Just playing.   
That is why Sherlock goes to Moriarty. Alone.   
He does not really care if Moriarty is really interested in the Bruce-Partington-plans or not.   
He just wants to stop the noise in his head that says _John is with Sarah John looks at Sarah John touches Sarah._  
His work has always been the best medicine. His kind, beautiful, undemanding wife. He has cheated on her way too long, so he goes to the pool and wants to embrace her and never let her go and let her work her numbing charm on him.   
Maybe she is able to cut the strings. 

But she is not. 

Moriarty has John.

_Oh God, I love him.  
Don‘t take away my strings. His strings. I want to be bound to him forever, even if he does not. Even if he does not love me. Even if he is with Sarah.   
I‘m his.   
And it‘s fine.   
Just don‘t take him away from me. Please. I will do anything, I will do everything, but don‘t take my John away.   
I need him.  
I love him.   
John John John. Please. tie me up even more, I need more strings from you, more ropes, tighter ropes, stronger ropes so nothing can take me away from you.   
Please, you can do with me whatever you want, torment me, whatever, just don‘t let them take away from me.   
I‘m your prisoner, I‘m your puppet, and I love it. _

 

Moriarty is gone and they are at home.   
Sherlock feels hollow at the new sensation that is still overwhelming him.   
He lies on the couch and tries to stop thinking.   
To stop to think. 

He has lost every control he has ever had. The panic is slowly creeping up his back. He jumps up and takes the violin, plays it with the utmost concentration.   
At least these strings are only his, he has got control over them. 

 

Sherlock plays flawlessly, beautifully, and John almost forgets his anger.   
He just listens for a few minutes and watches Sherlock‘s calm face getting even calmer. 

“You‘re the master of your violin. It‘s like the strings are obeying to you.“   
Sherlock stops playing and looks up. 

“Why did you go without me?“, John asks calmly. He goes to Sherlock and stays still only a few inches in front of him. 

“You could have been killed.“ John‘s voice is still calm but cold as ice. Sherlock just looks at him blankly. 

“Why didn‘t you run when I told you to?“ John‘s voice is a whisper now. Sherlock does not understand. 

John kisses Sherlock. 

Sherlock looks at his hands, when John finally let go of his mouth and is holding him in his arms, whispering “you are not allowed to die, you idiot, what would I have done if you have died, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock...“  
Sherlock stares at his hands. Is dumbfounded.   
He cannot even count the amount of strings he is holding.   
And all of them are leading to John, tying him up, making him Sherlock‘s puppet on the strings.


End file.
